Animal Testing
by CoatNTails
Summary: James Rathbone only had a few short years with the Wizard before he was picked up by the cops and dumped onto Child Services. Since then, he's collected as many occult books as he can find, and spends all his free time teaching himself what he can about magic. When at last he manages to piece together the recipe for a rare and powerful potion, he's eager to test it out...
1. Distillation

The damn stuff smelled sweet.

James ran through the process again in his head and couldn't think why, none of the ingredients were saccharine. Not that that really had much to do with anything; the combination of particular elements, even in mundane chemistry, often yielded something new, something unexpected. It was, James was sure, part of what excited the ancient alchemists so much. But they didn't understand the web of fundamental rules they were playing with, and James did. Or he fancied that he did, some days. And the combination of those paricular ingredients, taking chemical reactions and molecular rearrangements into account, shouldn't have produced anything that smelled sweet.

Which meant that he'd done it. He'd made something unfettered by the natural laws as they'd been taught to him in college. James quivered with excitement, and put the beaker down so he didn't accidentally spill it, or worse, succumb to the impulse to drink it and see what happened. That would be imprudent. For one thing, it required no fewer than two imbibers to do what it was meant to do. Who would he get to share it with him, James wondered, once he had gotten to the human trial stage? Because of course he would have to share it with somebody. Otherwise, how would he know if he'd actually succeeded? How would he know if it worked? How could he prove to anyone else that he'd done this thing that no one in thousands of years of recorded history and myth had done?

 _...how would he ever convince another person to understand his passions and share his interest...?_

James disregarded that last thought as irrelevant and pushed it back. The concoction wasn't for him, after all. It was for the sake of discovery itself, progress towards ordering the muddled words of all these books, so that someday, at the end of his lifetime, people could look at his work as into a pool of clear water and see everything plainly.

James frowned, suddenly irritable. He jotted a few terse observations in his notebook about the color and smell of the beaker's contents, circling the notation about the sweetness and, after laying his fingers against the glass to double check, about the warmth of the liquid itself, indicating perhaps that some reaction was still taking place. One of his books had mentioned allowing the mixture to sit for a period of three days. For the purpose of honoring of some deity or other for their blessings, according to the text, but James suspected it had the much more practical purpose of allowing the stuff to set. He tapped the end of the pencil against his lips thoughtfully, wondering if results would be diminished or absent entirely if he were actually to drink it early.

The pencil clattered to the other side of the lab table as he tossed it down with an irritated sigh. Three days of nothing but waiting! And he didn't need to make notes about any of this, he'd remember it, wouldn't he? It wasn't like he could stop thinking about it, anyway, all the details swirling round and around in his head. He could write it all up at the end if it still seemed like it was important, then he would know what was relevant and what wasn't. There were more pressing things to think about. For instance, there was still the problem of who he was going to share it with. He couldn't think of anyone he'd trust enough, not a single person – except for Nat. The thought made him grimace, even though she kept turning up in his mind as the best prospect. She knew about his work – his real work, here in his lab with all his occult books. And she knew enough about his past to know that it had been questionable, but at the same time never tried to pry. Nat's respect for his own privacy had led to a reluctant respect for her in return. Not that he would ever tell her so.

This particular project, though, had the potential for a great deal of unwanted intimacy. The sharing of souls – who knew what that could entail? James turned the beaker with his fingertips, staring at the amber liquid and burning with curiosity. He was especially curious how the element of 'soul' was going to be interpreted. Would he experience a flash of memories from the other person? Their collective experiences firing across the unfamiliar map of his own brain? Could it reorder their synapses, even reconfigure their DNA? Would it be temporary or permanent? Would the other person understand James, as even he didn't understand himself? Would all his own experiences be laid bare for judgement without understanding at all?

His snatched his fingers back from the warmth of the glass and shook his head. It was a problem. He couldn't choose just anyone. Or could he? He was tempted to just go and find a vagrant on the streets, someone who wouldn't know him from the next Joe and who wouldn't have the power to do anything to him afterwards. But if there was any kind of permanent change, any kind of transference, James had to consider what he might be saddled with himself. No, it couldn't be just anyone. But all the people he could stand the thought of sharing himself with were already gone...

There was no use thinking about it, James told himself firmly, physically turning away from the table so that he wasn't even looking at it. He wasn't at the human trials yet. The stuff had to get past animal trials first. For all he knew, it could just be a sweet smelling poison he'd made. None of the ingredients had been toxic either, but he reminded himself again that the result was very rarely ever simply the sum of it's parts. He'd once brewed something so incredibly lethal that it had put a rabbit into a coma just through tactile contact. And all that had gone into it was pure water and seventeen differently prepared infusions of turmeric. Nothing else. No, it had to pass testing before he even considered using it on himself or anyone else. And that meant procuring another test subject. James slung his coat over his shoulders and shrugged it on. He grabbed his keys and one of the battered animal carriers from the corner of his lab. Time to find another test subject.


	2. Heterochromia

The problem of which animal to choose was much simpler, and mostly decided for him. As of last week, the pet store he frequented was having some kind of supply issue with one of its breeders, so he couldn't use mice or rats - which was a shame, because they were small, easy to keep and usually useful. A rabbit would be convenient, but there weren't ever any rabbits available in the fall. Which left a handful of birds, fish and reptiles at the pet store. He considered the parakeets. Like rats, they were small and inexpensive. But as they weren't even in the same taxonomic class as he was, he couldn't be sure that whatever results he got would be pertinent. The same went for reptiles and fish. James sighed and headed out of the store empty handed.

The animal shelter was his next stop, and it was woefully overcrowded with both dogs and cats. He'd tried to use a dog for an experiment once, but discovered he didn't like working with them. They were noisy for one, and potentially dangerous for another. A dog's bite was much worse than a rat's under any circumstance. But what had truly bothered him was that the dog hadn't been aggressive at all – not like the thin, wary strays he'd had experience with as a child – or even instinctually fearful like the feeder-rats and mice. As soon as he'd taken it out of the crate, the stupid thing had pushed itself towards him with low ears and wagging tail and a furtive, licking tongue. It had trusted him. Unfounded, unreasoning trust that James hadn't expected.

He had returned it to the shelter, losing the adoption fee he'd paid and causing him to miss the window during which the experiment needed to be performed. Never again would he get a dog. But cats, he understood, were generally tidy, aloof, and quiet. That made them an appropriate choice for his apartment, and not too troublesome to care for for as long as he needed it.

The shelter volunteer, a bored looking kid in his late teens or early twenties, led James to the cat room. It was a small, dirty space that smelled powerfully of urine and was stacked floor to ceiling with cramped cages, the majority of them full. He snapped his gum and leaned against the door jam with his arms crossed, seeming inured to the incessant yowling. James peered into the cages, but he wasn't really paying attention, occupied for a few minutes instead with surreptitiously analysis the kid's posture, behavior and dress, making guesses to himself about why he was volunteering here. Was it to make a good impression with a girl? Public service requirements at Isles University? Or because the job afforded him the opportunity to indulge some sadistic impulse to hurt things... He hadn't decided yet, when a flash of white caught his attention.

"Why hasn't this one been adopted yet?" James asked.

The kid craned his neck to look at the cat in the cage James was pointing at.

"Dunno," he said. "Why would that one get adopted before any of the other ones?"

James twitched his shoulders in a disinterested shrug. "Well. The heterochromia, if nothing else."

"The what?"

James sighed and gestured with his long fingers towards the cat. "It's got one blue eye and one yellow. It's rare. And it's pretty. Seems like the pretty ones would go first."

"Doesn't look too pretty to me. Dirty and skinny," the boy said. James decided firmly on sadism as the kid pushed off the wall and ambled over to flip the little info tag on the cage. "He's male... oh. He's not neutered, that's probably why. He got picked up from Grand Forks. Don't know why he's even out here, mostly Grand Forks pick ups are just- ..well, they don't usually get put out for adoption. Too much risk of rabies and stuff. Guess he got lucky in the shuffle. But people don't want 'em unless they're already neutered, because they spray and make a mess." He fished in his back pocket for a marker and drew a large red 'E' on the cat's tag, right over the written info.

"I'll take him," James said impulsively.

"Huh?" said the volunteer. "But he's...I was just going to send him back... for the vet to have a look at him, you know, to make sure he's safe for adoption."

"Don't bother," James said, knowing that wasn't what the cat was being sent to the back for at all. "I'll take him. I believe all my information is already in the computer. I'll sign a waiver if you want, so you have it in writing that I understand I can't sue you if I get bitten and contract rabies."

"Oh. Uh. Fine, yeah. Sure." The kid shrugged and moved to the wall to grab a pair of heavy duty gloves that covered his arms up to the elbow. James raised his eyebrow and waited to see if the cat attacked as soon as the cage door was opened. But all it did was slink to the back to avoid the grabbing hands, and gave only minor resistance to being pulled out. The kid put the cat into James' carrier, and led him back up to the front to sign the necessary papers and collect the adoption fee.

Almost as soon as he piled back into the car, James began to regret his decision. The cat weaved in front of the carrier's door, pressing it's head against the bars to try and push it's way out. Failing that, it started mewling in distress, and then howling.

"Cats are supposed to be quiet," James informed his passenger seriously. The cat meowed in objection. James sighed. "What the hell was I thinking...? You probably do have rabies. And all kinds of contagions on your claws. Shit."

James fumed as he thought about the paper he'd just signed informing him that the shelter would not be taking the cat back.

"And you're white. White animals are more prone to deafness, and skin cancer. What good are you to me if you're already sick?"

The cat protested these accusations with a particularly desperate howl, and started biting at the carrier door. James clenched his teeth. If this was how it was going to be, keeping it caged wasn't going to work. His neighbors would complain, and God forbid there was an inspection of his apartment.

"I promise you, if you piss on anything I own, I'll use you for another turmeric experiment."

James hadn't thought it possible for the cat to howl any louder, but he soon realized his error.

The ride home seemed twice as long as the ride to the shelter. He hauled the carrier into his apartment, but didn't let the cat out yet. First things first. He grabbed one of the plastic tubs he used in the lab and went right back outside again. Half a block away from this apartment was a small playground. Ignoring the mother who looked up from pushing her son on the swing set, he strode to the sand box and filled his tub. He returned home with the stolen sand, and set the makeshift litter box down in the bathroom.

When he returned to the carrier, he was wearing leather work gloves and two layers of long sleeves.

"Alright, alright, Jesus," he muttered at the howling cat, finally crouching down to open the carrier door, "but I bet you're going to wish you'd stayed in here."

Never before had James heard such sounds come out of an animal as when he subjected the cat to water and soap. It made him wonder about the origin of banshee myths and worry again about his neighbors reporting him to the superintendent of the building. But he emerged victorious, successfully cleaning the residue of street life from the cat, even carefully disinfecting it's claws with rubbing alcohol. He rubbed the cat down with a towel as best he could before it got away, and considering how traumatized he felt after the whole ordeal, he couldn't blame it when it disappeared immediately into hiding.

"You're free for the next three days," James called after it as he peeled out of his layers and checked his arms for injury, "but don't get too comfortable!"

He made amends over the next few days with offerings of food, which the cat devoured. James found himself setting out extra to help the cat recover a little weight, able to sympathize with being hungry. He rationalized it with mutters of, "just a few days."


	3. The Toast

James came home from work on the third day and dropped his keys on the counter. His eyes darted around the room for any signs of the cat. But as usual it was hidden out of sight. James wouldn't have known it was there if he hadn't brought it home himself – except for the new claw marks on the arm of his run down old couch. James glowered at it with a little sniff of disdain. Well, he thought, tonight was the night, and discovery was worth a few claw marks. Not like it did anything to the functionality of the furniture anyway.

It was painfully difficult for James not to just dive for his lab and grab the beaker of fluid, to pipet it down the cat's throat right that minute. He'd fumbled things at work all day in his distraction, his mind on what he had to do at home rather than what he had to do for his paycheck. It was so hard to wait, to concentrate on the stupid mundane tasks that took up so much of his time, eight hellishly long hours of mind-numbingly dull busywork until he could come back to the books and the mysteries and the bitter smell of reagents in his lab... but now that he was finally here, all those comforts were just maddening, because he still had to wait - James checked his watch again - another five and a half hours, at least, for it to be a full three days since he'd finished the brewing. Why did he have to make the stuff so damnably late, putting it all together in the wee hours of the morning? Because of the doubly damned day job that sapped him of all his time and energy and all the premium hours of productivity in the day. For what? For nothing! There wasn't even anyone there who could appreciate what he could really do. They had no idea. Maybe he would quit tomorrow. It was only his first job offer, anyway, there had to be better opportunities, better hours, better pay so he could work fewer hours and spend more time doing the real work of discovery...

The cat's face peeked out from the bedroom doorway, a shock of white in the dark hall, peering at him. It made James pause to look back at it. Normally the thing hid for hours until James was truly absorbed in something, only creeping out to explore when it was still and quiet and James was fully occupied in his research.

He really should have patience and wait the stipulated time. It was a soft, fleeting thought. Easily ignored. James checked his watch again. Five hours, twenty minutes. What was five hours and twenty minutes? Cosmically speaking, nothing. Less than nothing. Even in the contextual time frame, it was what, a little over seven percent of the three day period in question. Less than a tenth. How much difference could it make? Was the _god_ he was honoring watching the clock? James snorted and swung his coat from his shoulders to drape it on the chair by the counter, brushing the wrinkles out of the worn material with his fingertips. It was only the first set of trials, anyway. Time to feed the cat.

With a rush of sick excitement, James collected his beaker of amber liquid, then a few bowls and a glass from the kitchen. The motion sent the cat dashing for cover again, but the ratcheting sound of a can being opened drew it back out in a matter of moments. It only took a teaspoon of tuna on a plate to lure the cat into the bathroom, and before it could even finish those two bites, James himself materialized by the sink and flung the door shut, trapping them both inside. The cat scurried for cover and peeped out at him worriedly from behind the toilet with it's wide, odd-colored eyes.

Boyish excitement welled up in him, and he had to make an effort to push it back down, slow his breathing, calm his heart rate. After a glance at his notes, he took one final deep breath, straightened his back, and concentrated. The cat, the bathroom, even the unruly anticipation that twisted low in the pit of his stomach was all pushed to the peripheral of his consciousness. Will and concentration were more important than anything to a successful casting. The words spilled out of James' mouth in a low monotone, the gestures of his long fingers precise and carefully timed, but it was his will that forced the universe to listen. Two measures poured at the correct moments, just as if he were sharing the potion with another person, a final word of command, and then all that was left was the drinking of it. He blinked his eyes opened and relaxed.

"Smells even better than before," he said offhandedly to the cat, setting one cup of potion down by the plate of tuna and stepping back to give the animal room. "You liked it a couple days ago. Same stuff." He took his own cup in his hand and swirled it, releasing more of the sweet aroma. "Come on, we'll toast. To unearthing secrets. To Paraclesus – and the bookstore that had Babcock's translation of him, may it rest in bankruptcy. To Babcock, and his unique perspective on spagyric alchemy, even if it did ruin his professional career. To... I don't know, what the hell do cats want to toast to? To can openers, and the opposable thumbs that operate them."

James raised his glass. The cat hissed.

"Fine," James grumbled, lowering it again and leaning back against the door jam. "Critic. You can deliver the next toast then. Go on. History is waiting on you."

Unfortunately for James, he discovered that history could wait quite a long time on a cat. An infuriatingly long time. After an hour, James lost his temper and chased him out from behind the toilet, which only led to the cat trying to dig out under the door, spooking itself in the mirror, and scaling the shower curtain, all in a matter of ten seconds or so. After a fight to get the cat down from the shower rod, they reached an uneasy truce with the cat in the bathtub and James sitting cross-legged in front of the door nursing his clawed arms.

"You'll die of thirst before I do," James said bitterly. "I can work the faucet. All you've got is that damn cup of goop, and it's all you're going to get, so you might as well just drink it."

Several more hours ticked by, and James realized that he may as well have just waited the proper time in comfort. At least out there, there was the possibility of doing something constructive. Reading at the very least. None of his books had prepared him for this aspect of magic. Where was it written that he would ever be stuck in his bathroom with an angry cat slinking around his shower? And again, all he could do was wait.

He didn't know what time it was when frustration finally gave way to weary boredom, and he closed his eyes. But when he opened them again, it was to the sound of the cat trying to find purchase on the tub wall as it climbed up and out. It froze when it realized that he was awake. There was a tense half minute of staring, with James holding himself still as a statue, too afraid to breathe in case he scared the cat into hiding again. But the cat seemed to have had enough of the bathtub, and at last slipped down the rest of the way to the floor. It watched James carefully, pausing at the slightest shift. James' heart leapt in his chest as the cat dipped its head to sniff the amber liquid, and he readied his own glass, raising it slowly to his lips...

But the cat only sniffed and gave its head a quick shake, licking its chops without trying so much as a single sip. It went instead to the last gram of tuna that was left and lapped it up. Just to spite James, he was sure of it. Watching the cat lap at the clean tuna plate, he started mumbling a quiet string of curses and threats that the cat ignored completely except for a flick of it's ear. Minutes passed. James decided to give up and began looking around for something new to throw. And then the cat sat up and looked at James. It turned to the cup of potion and looked at him again. It licked it's chops. James blinked and held his own cup up once more. As if on cue, the cat stooped to drink.


	4. Fish

The liquid hit James' tongue like nectar from a sun kissed fruit, just as sweet as it smelled and somehow still warm. It made him long immediately for a patch of sunlight to stretch out into, which was strange, since James couldn't really remember ever having done that before. His safe apartment, protected from the outside from the locks right down to the heavy black-out curtains, seemed suddenly cold and cramped, and full of stringent smells that burned his nose. He could smell everything. Every cleaning agent stored under the sink, the shampoo, the toilet, the sand in the litter box, the aroma of the tuna that was already gone. And over all that, the chaos of scent coming from down the hall, his lab, full of herbs and minerals and viscera and the overpowering chemical sting that muddled his senses. And he could see! The dim light from the single bulb was more than enough for him to see every detail, every fleck in the linoleum, even in the shadows.

The cat licked it's chops, cleaning the last residue from it's whisker. It regarded James with what looked unmistakably like judgement before deciding he wasn't worth its attention and turning to groom its paw.

"...This isn't what I was expecting," James said aloud, and his voice sounded loud and harsh in his own ears, ringing off the bathroom wall. He cringed and got quickly to his feet. The movement made the cat look up, but it didn't try to run or hide, just looked at him disdainfully. James stared down at it. He groped at the counter and patted at his pockets.

"Pen," he muttered in horror. "Where's a pen? How do I not have a pen."

He flung the door open and shot down the hall to his lab, whisking himself back in moments with a fresh notebook and pen, already scribbling, checking his watch for the time, taking his pulse and checking himself for any peculiarities in the mirror. The cat sighed deeply as James muttered to himself through the whole process.

"...accelerated heart rate... probably just due to excitement... pupils normal but sight greatly improved... smell... why so much physical alteration? And how? Time is... 11:43, seven minutes past the minimum wait time, so it shouldn't be an effect of administering it prematurely... what the hell was I thinking, pouring it out early? Idiot. I don't feel any differently besides that... do I? Do I feel different?" James paused with his pen on the paper, trying to take stock of himself beyond his physical senses. The cat sniffed, drawing James' attention down to it. He whipped the page over to start a new one for his observations on the cat.

"Subject seems well, physically, exhibiting uncharacteristic bravery..." he paused, flicked his eyes up to the cat and down again, scratched out 'bravery' and wrote instead, "calmness. ...difficult to know without testing whether there are any changes to physical senses. Why can't you things talk, it would be so much easier to just interview you..."

As if in response, the cat sniffed haughtily again. It padded over to the empty tuna dish and plunked back down on it's haunches, looking pointedly up at James.

"Fish," it demanded in a voice high and clear.

James dropped his pen.

The cat looked up at him. It cocked its head and flicked it's ears as if pondering why James was being so stupid. Up it stood, and padded right over to James, closer than it had ever willingly come, and clawed at his pant leg.

"Fish," it demanded again, more loudly.

James hissed and jerked backwards at the prick of claws through his pants. He blinked down at the animal speaking to him in his bathroom. And then he did the only thing that seemed to make sense; he slowly turned and went to get the tuna can from the kitchen. The cat followed to supervise, and waited impatiently for James to spoon out a few tablespoons for it. James could only stare, dumbfounded, as the cat bolted it down. Then to prove that it had more than a one word vocabulary, it looked up again from the empty plate with a lick of its whiskers and said, "More."

James found that the physical alterations to his own senses disappeared after only a few hours. But the cat retained its uncanny new ability to speak, even into the next morning. James stood by the kitchen counter watching the cat eat it's breakfast, his hand resting on the telephone receiver as he actually contemplated calling in sick. He'd never called in sick before. Not even when he'd contracted what he believed to have been pneumonia – though Dink had sent him home that week anyway. It still rankled him, a little. He could have gotten his work done, and saved the sick days for when he was truly incapacitated. But it was too late to worry about that now.

The cat licked it's chops and demanded, "More."

"N-... No," James said nervously.

"Yes," The cat growled, standing up.

James steeled himself and repeated, "no. You've had more than the recommended serving on the can already. You can have more later."

The cat lashed it's tail, and its ears tipped backwards.

"Now," it said.

"Hey," James said, taking his hand from the phone to point at the cat. "Don't you start thinking that language gets you anything. You think talking is special? Puts you right on the level with proselytizers and telemarketers as far as I'm concerned. You don't intimidate me. You'll get more food later, when I get home. And if you're thinking about taking it out on any of my stuff, I'll address that when I get home, too. I've got a nice new supply of hypodermics and plenty of sodium thiopental if I decide that you're more trouble than you're worth."

The cat's ears flattened but it didn't say anything else, just stood up and slunk disgustedly from the kitchen, leaving James to ponder again whether he should actually leave for work. And he did in the end, deciding that he needed the time away to think, which made it a very unproductive day. But when he returned home, it was with a firm sense of responsibility and resolve.

"Cat," he called when he opened the door.

The cat frowned at him with another backwards flip of its ears from where it sat on the arm of his favorite chair.

"Here," it said with a tone of disdain.

James collected himself, only a little taken aback by the cat being right there instead of hiding under something as he'd grown accustomed to. He squared his jaw and smoothed down his vest, closing the door behind him quickly to prevent eavesdropping.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to stay here," James said gravely.

The cat's small ribcage heaved with a long-suffering sigh. "Yes," it said patiently with a swish of it's tail.

"...and I'm going to have to give you a name."

It regarded him seriously for a moment before deciding that James needed help arriving at the truly important subjects.

"Fish," it said plainly.

"Oh..." James backpedaled again, remembering that he had promised the next meal when he'd gotten home from work. He recovered his determination, pursed his lips so as not to look weak, and walked to the kitchen to spoon out another helping of cat food. The cat leapt down from the couch and trotted over, sniffing at the food when he put the plate down on the floor. Instead of devouring it, it just looked up at James.

"Warm," it demanded.

"What?" James asked blankly.

"Warm," it said again, more slowly to compensate for James' simple mindedness.

James blinked at the cat, and hesitantly picked the dish back up. He looked at it a moment, and then at the microwave. Feeling a little dizzy, he put the plate in for twenty seconds, frowning when he heard it pop and splatter. When the plate was returned to him, the cat took another sniff and shook it's head like the food had zapped him.

"Hot," it complained.

"You said you wanted it hot," James said.

"Warm," the cat corrected.

"Christ on a bicycle..." James ran an exasperated hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, your worship, that it isn't worthy of your magnificence. Is this what it's going to be like? I didn't realize I was entertaining a deity.

"Surprise," the cat said blandly, twitching its nose in disdain at being mocked.

James laughed. He stood another long moment, considering what to say.

"...Just give it a few minutes to cool off," he suggested. "Tangaroa, king of the gods, expects better service, I have no doubt. But he'll have to be content with a lump of 'Friskies' that's too hot on the outside and cold on the inside. It's got to be better than what you're used to."

Tangaroa flicked his ear doubtfully.

"Fine," James said. "I'll work on the presentation. And in return, you can answer a few questions for me... and we can get to know each other a little bit better. ...Alright?"

The hopeful sound of the question made Tangaroah's ear flick forward this time, and he considered James a moment without looking unfriendly. Then, as if in acceptance of the deal, he stooped to start digging in to the meal set before him. James smiled, and dashed to the back room to grab his notebook so he could compose a careful list of questions.


End file.
